I wake early, before the sun. Ben is asleep beside me on his stomach, his hair disheveled and falling across his eyes. My head hurts.
I sit up slowly. I’m in his bed, naked, because after having sex on the couch he pulled me into his bedroom and we had sex in here too.
An image of me smothering him with a pillow flashes across my vision. That’s pretty standard for me waking up with men. It would be so easy to kill a sleeping man.
“I still vote strangulation for this one,” Savvy whispers. I shake the voice away.
I find my dress on the floor, and my underwear in the living room. It’s ripped, so I toss it in the trash on my way out.
I’m outside before I remember that my car is still at the bar. I debate calling the one Uber driver, but he’s probably asleep, and it’s only about a mile down the road. I start down the sidewalk, hoping a strong breeze doesn’t blow up my dress and expose my ass to the world.
It’s hot, even just before sunrise, and sweat trickles down my back as I walk.
I wasn’t nearly drunk enough last night to blame my choices on the alcohol, which was honestly shit planning on my part. Should have gotten wasted. Then at least I’d have an excuse.
But, no excuses. We didn’t even use a condom, which is really just the icing on my bad-decision cake. I’ve had an IUD for years, so there are no smug babies in my immediate future, but who knows where Ben has been sticking that thing. He fucks like he gets around.
A little podcast souvenir. I should get a T-shirt: I was the subject of a true crime podcast and all I got was this T-shirt and gonorrhea.
My car is still, thankfully, in the parking lot, and I drive home to a dark, quiet house.
I walk upstairs and close my door softly, change my clothes, and climb into bed. Early morning sun is filtering in through the blinds, and there’s a text from Ben on my phone. I ignore it and close my eyes.
My headache is gone when I wake the second time, and I’m starving now. I trudge downstairs. No sign of Mom, which is a relief. I don’t need to add that to my hangover. I smear some cream cheese on a bagel and then hurry back upstairs.
There are more texts from Ben on my phone.
Hey. Did you get home okay?
You could have woken me up.
Seriously, just text me so I know you’re not dead.
I perch on the edge of my bed, take a bite of my bagel, and text him back.
I’m not dead. I got home fine.
My phone rings immediately. Way to play it cool, Ben.
I swipe to answer it. “Hey.”
“It’s rude to leave a guy in bed, you know.”
“Is it?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Do you usually sleep with the murder suspect of your podcast?”
“The suspect in season one was a man.”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a no.” He sounds amused.
“Do you usually forget the condom?”
“No. Uh, I’m sorry about that, I don’t—”
“It’s fine, that’s my fault too. I have birth control covered, I was just sort of hoping you hadn’t been raw-doggin’ it all over Los Angeles.”
He lets out a short, startled laugh. “I have not been raw-doggin’ it all over Los Angeles. Or anywhere. Usually.”
Just with me, then. I don’t know whether I feel special or insulted.
“I feel like your podcaster ethics have really gone to shit here, Ben.” I mean it as a criticism, but he laughs.
“Whatever. No one ever accused me of making good decisions.”
“Questionable ethics, but you can’t argue with the results!” The words I read about Ben a couple of weeks ago float through my mind, and I have to work not to laugh. No one can say I wasn’t warned.
In truth, no one ever accused me of making good decisions either.
“You want to get breakfast?” he asks. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“I need to write. Talk to me now.”
He pauses, and then clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Okay. So, I’m putting together a bonus episode for tomorrow with the stuff I recorded with Matt yesterday. I want to send it to you first and let you veto it.”
Veto it? I had sex with the man two times and I’m now apparently in charge of the podcast. I’m either proud of myself or horrified. Hard to say.
“Why do I get to do that?”
“Because it includes an interview that makes me uncomfortable. I’ll cut it if you ask me to.”
“Who’s the interview with?”
“Maya Harper.”
My stomach clenches the way it always does when someone mentions Maya. Savvy’s little sister.
“Send me the interview.”